


They Gambled Past Starfall

by Aloice, Stripe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Sadstuck, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloice/pseuds/Aloice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stripe/pseuds/Stripe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has run out of things to gamble, and he has to decide what he's going to do.</p><p>John<3Vriska entry for Round 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Gambled Past Starfall

**Author's Note:**

> A fic/art collab entry by Aloice and Stripe; spiritually part of the writer's Terminaldiseasestuck, and conceived mostly during dark nights in rural China. It goes pretty nicely with Two Steps From Hell's "Starfall"!

  
[Two Steps From Hell - Starfall](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFEAzP1Zm-A)   


The month is November, and you are running.

Escaping her has been frighteningly easy. Although she did manage to tear off a slice of your shirt in frustration, you _were_ the healthy one, and you ran away from her, not finding the strength to deal with her wild eyes.

White hospital buildings pass like a blur as you count your heartbeats, seven, nine, ten. You know what you're looking for: your happy place, that little oasis in your mind that allows you to ignore everything bad that's going on. It's ancient and has served you well, even during your father's funeral, even during these long years –

– And you panic, because you can't find it –

– And you put your face in your hands, because she has taken it from you –

– And you start heading back, because you can't hate her for teaching you how to feel.

 

She's sitting up on her sickbed when you walk back in, her face eight different shades of flushed. You say hi, and pretend you never heard the surgery proposal. 

“Joooooooohn,” she cuts to the chase, brows furrowed and eyes extra bright, and you groan internally because you know her _fuck you, I'm doing this_ face. “Just man up and sign the papers already! I'm not going to change my mind, you know that.”

“Not signing.”

“Fine, I'll just go ahead anyway!”

You can't help but lose composure. “Where are you going to get the money, if I don't pay your bills?”

Her monitor is starting to freak out. As usual, she doesn't care. “I'll write a book. Go on the streets, do some swordfighting. Gamble –”

“You're already gambling!”

“I'm always gambling!”

“You're gambling your _life_ , Vriska!”

“And I've done it for nineteen years! Participating in the trials, overdosing on those pills… I care about those minutes, John! Those minutes when I get to talk to you, and to dream about forever! You know what's going to happen if I don't do this surgery – you've known it for years! Do you really want me to –”

“No, I don't.” You cut her off, and call the nurse. “But I took statistics.”

“I'm Lady Luck.”

“Luck doesn't even matter. Go to sleep, Vriska.”

She throws you a bitter look as the nurse records her vitals and turns off the light. “I'll find a way, you know. You can't stop me.”

“Blame yourself for teaching me how to fight back, then. I can play dirty, too.”

“John, you're just scared.”

You don't answer.

She drifts off.

 

You hate watching Vriska sleep. All fight seems to go out of her when she's unconscious: she's just _there_ , quiet, harmless and vulnerable, unable to exchange blows, unable to scream her will at the sun and make the world obey. It makes you realize that she is mortal after all, and indeed, dying. 

Vriska's a Tetralogy of Fallot patient with a million complications. When you first met her, you had two broken bones and she had two failing organs; she was (against explicit orders) using nail polish to paint spiders onto her skin, and you were told she “could use some help”.

 _“So_ _you're the 'legendary comedian'???????? I'm not impressed.”_

_“What can I do for you, princess?”_

_“It's_ marquise _. Let's see – can you stop me from stealing other patients' pain meds?”_

_You dump a bucket of glue around her bed the next day and give her a stern lecture. She sits unmoved, her feet stuck on the ground._

_“Turn over the meds, Serket.”_

_“I was trying to stop them from getting addicted! I'm not even using the ones I took! I should know, I've been on pain meds forever –”_

_“Steal from the ones that are stockpiling them against doctors' orders, then.”_

_“You know what? I like you.”_

_“Your tattoo looks gross.”_

_“Fuck off!!!!!!!!”_

You don't know what she saw in you – humor? Being capable but also gullible? Nic Cage? – But soon Vriska Serket was turning up on your doorstep with her mischievous smile. She'd come, breathless looking, dump an amalgam of cards, dice and movies on your fellow patient's bed, and stay there until he returned from physical therapy.

What did you see in _her_? Maybe it was the way she loved to yell around and dance in the rain, all the while flailing the two IVs like ribbons. Maybe it was how her character felt bittersweet, as if even though she could take you on the quest of a lifetime, she would make you fall a loooooooong way down. You fell in love, not because it was right, not even because it was easy, but because it was liberating: you were plunging deep into an abyss, sure, but you _wanted_ to. You thirsted for that rich, multicolored life she seemed to live – wanted to be the hero, someone who could make something for himself – and she seemed nearly as hungry in return, running into your arms with an incredible need for affection and understanding. If you learned passion from her, she learned compassion from you; if she was ecstatic to see you finally understand how to properly embrace the falling sky, you found the sight of her cleaning up other patients' wounds exhilarating.

Vriska has a life expectancy of twenty years. Sadly, you know what it means – you own photos of her respirator and shirts stained with streaks of her blood. While she wakes up from nightmares screaming about sunken pirate ships, you spend countless nights trying to forget that one time you felt her heart stop beating.

And she's right. You _are_ terrified.

Although the experimental surgery might give Vriska another five years to live, it also carries a terrible mortality rate.

It hurts to see Vriska waste away, but it'd hurt even more witnessing her battle and die. Vriska may bleed out or become comatose, but you've never, ever seen her complain or cry. She also has that attitude about surgeries –

_“John, STOP WORRYING ABOUT ME!” She shouts from the OR, her voice raspy but still stubborn. “This surgery is a fucking challenge and I'm the best gladiator in the world!!!!!!!!”_

Vriska's body is deteriorating. The end is coming; she's still burning, burning proud and fearless, but burning like Antares glaring, violent and beautiful, about to annihilate itself forever through an explosive show of a supernova.

You don't know why you believe Vriska's going to put up the best fight before succumbing, but you only care about the succumbing part, and it's scaring you senseless.

It's been three years, and you're still not ready to lose her.

At the office, the doctor greets you sympathetically before reminding you of the bills. You sigh heavily, and leave for work; Vriska's inheritance can only cover three quarters of the bill, not considering the surgery she's dying to do.

Looks like you'll have to work overtime again.

 

It's midnight when you find yourself staring dazedly at the elevator screen. 4, 3, 2… the number counts down, and you feel dead, dead inside.

The metal door closes noisily after you force yourself in, and as the box brings you closer and closer to her, you suddenly feel like you are suffocating.

Shaking, you force your hand up to click “12”, the floor leading to the roof.

 

Most of the roof is a garden. You throw yourself into a field of flowers, desperate to forget, frantic to smell the fragrance of new life.

“It's you, isn't it?”

You spin. Vriska's sitting ten feet away, her hair a spider web in the wind.

“Why are _you_ here?”

“The air down below is disgusting. Do you want a jacket?”

You grab one. “That's not the real reason, right?”

“I wanted to think of a way to convince you, sure.”

Your head hurts. “No.”

She sighs. “I'm sorry I exploded earlier. That was stupid. You _should_ stop working overtime, though.”

“Nope.”

“I _did_ make some money writing. Enough to cover this month, the surgery –"

“Vriska, you were right.”

“…?”

“I _am_ scared.”

“You don't know I'm going to die.” She coughs. A meteor flashes by. “I'm lucky, I'm tough, I have a great track record –”

“I'm just not ready to see you die.”

“ _John_. I'm dying.”

“Never thought I'd hear you say that!”

“I deal with the hand I've been given. John, even if you don't trust me to pull through… I'm dying. Even if I extend the deadline from one year to two, I'll still slowly become bedridden and useless. I'll no longer run, play pranks, or even watch all those movies we still haven't gotten to… I'll be on dialysis and oxygen, drifting in and out of consciousness, and I'll die slowly and painfully, all the while knowing I've missed this chance.”

“Vriska, the months you're throwing away…”

“I need hope, John. If I have to die, I want to die the way I want, to die the Vriska you know.”

“But it's not like I'll just stop caring about you…”

“John, _I just want you to remember me as the girl who can fly_.”

 

Eight days later.

Outside the OR, you squeeze her hand one last time.

"Good luck," you hear yourself whisper.

_"Just… good luck."_

 

You force yourself to fall asleep.

Although you agreed to the surgery, you don't think you're brave enough to stare it down.

 

 

You wake up with a jolt, every muscle seemingly on fire. Something's wrong, and time's running out… What could possibly be this bad? You hit your temple as electricity runs a circuit through your blood, charging up every nerve.

_…Oh._

The surgery's long over; you find no one in the OR, not even a corpse. Shaking, you burst into a dead run, beating three flights of stairs in twenty seconds. Nobody you pass even has the time to react as you swipe a card off a doctor and break into the ICU; today, you bend wind, and test the limits of velocity.

You find her in the last room of the corridor, connected to an armada of machines. There's no need for sorrowful verdicts now, no time for the nurse to explain what went wrong; the look on her face is enough, both for you to realize what you must do, and to know her decision to help you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, and stride forward to take out everything that's still connecting Vriska to life.

Four minutes later, you live high end Hollywood drama as you kick down the ICU's emergency door, storming out with a dying girl in your arms amid the screaming of security bells.

 

 _This isn't the best place to fly, but we'll manage_ , you think as you blockade the entrance to the roof, dumping two giant vases against it with one hand.

Vriska has, against all odds, survived the trip. _Barely,_ you think; she seems to have a high fever. _May the world end in fire_ , you think to yourself, and smile ruefully as you spot Scorpio in the night sky.

“Vriska! Vriska, wake up. Vriska, please!”

She wakes as she always does, ferociously and without warning. One moment she's cracked and broken, and the next she has sprang up and locked lips, the blue in her irises fierce as a tsunami.

She kisses like it's the kiss to end everything; the one kiss that saves the past, the present and the future, that one touch that rewrites world history. There's a kind of desperation in it that demands the immediate and final sealing of forever, so you kiss back, determined to see this through to the end, determined to throw your soul away, determined to find out what love means as everything crashes and burns.

She tastes like blue flames and the collapsing star.

“John, dance with me,” she croaks, and you wince because you know she's actually screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Sure?”

“Let me have my last dance.”

  


So you take her. She's blazing and you feel possessed by a spirit of destruction and freedom, so you use hedge trimmers to cut her a dress and let her spin under the mistletoe, her figure a silhouette under the moon. There's something drunk about her waltz, but that's okay, she's leaning on you; there's something uninteresting about your tango, but that's okay, she's adding color by spitting blood. Eventually, all movement stop appearing human and instead become a choreographed maze of action – she falls, you catch, you jump, she turns.

It would be a nice iteration of forever if she didn't faint at the end.

“Hey, Serket,” you murmur, pinching her arm. “Let's fly?”

 

“You're mad,” she says as you bring her the makeshift pair of plastic wings. “But I love you that way.”

“Just _please_ don't tell me we're going to crash.”

“Of course not. You have an eternity left to fly.”

“I can't live forever. That would be cruel, too, since we'd be separated... for good.”

“You can fly to hell to visit me!” She laughs, coughing up more blood in the process. “I'm sorry, John. For everything.”

“I'm sorry, too.” You pull her close, trying your hardest to remember her scent. Blueberries, the sun, used cards, fairy dust… “But I'm not sorry to be here. You're not going to believe what I'm going to pull…”

 

You think she's born to fly.

“Work those wings!” You shout, spreading your arms out to grasp more streams of air.

“ _I AM!!!!!!!!_ ” She bellows back, sprinting like she's never supposed to, her eyes flashing danger and the rawest kind of joy.

“Here, let me.”

There's no hesitation from either of you; in one second, you've pulled her into your hold and raised her above your head, laughing and whirling as she stretches up to touch the sky. Despite how abysmal things may seem, supporting her world, you're Atlas; above you, she sings with no respect for death, euphoric to collide with the night air, thrilled to rule over the shining streetlights below.

But _wait_.

Is the air around her lighting up? You can't tell – it's dark, and you might be hallucinating with all the pain and excitement – but you think you are seeing pixie trails. She's different, too – instead of the crude outfit you made, she's now wearing a blinding bright orange hoodie with a golden insignia and natural wings –

You're no longer wearing a T-shirt and shorts, either; you're a god with a long windsock and a hoodie of striking blue –

So your toes leave the table as you are lifted by the air as if it's the most natural thing in the world, as if it's what you're meant to do all along –

And you reach out to take her hand, manipulating the wind no longer with all your strength but just the blink of an eye –

And you fly, true disciples of passion and freedom, defying logic and the cataclysm raining, letting go of everything but the other young deity twirling in the heavens.

 

“About gambling…” you start, as you return to the roof. All color save blue has drained out of Vriska's face; although her fever's gone, she looks like she could shatter any second.

“Yes, John?” she sighs, coughing again. “I lost. We lost. What's there to say?”

“I'm glad you gambled.”

“What?”

“We lost this time, sure, but if you didn't often gamble your life with those risky procedures… we wouldn't have had the chance to spend so much time together. Maybe we wouldn't have even met! You tried as hard as you could to win time for us, and you won us three years, so, I just want to say, I think that counts as a victory…”

“John, you're crying.” It sounds suspiciously like Vriska's trying to hide a chuckle, even though her voice is starting to falter. “I didn't know… you cared?”

“Geeeeeeeez.”

“I love you, John,” she says seriously. She's trying hard – you've never seen her try so hard – to keep herself conscious and her voice clear, and it's not helping your tears. “You're no orator… but you mean everything you… say, so they're worth everything to me.”

“Vriska –”

“Hey, legendary comedian,” she interrupts. “I wanted to do… great things, and with you, I've done… greater things than I've ever imagined. I wish I can pay you back... for everything… so, if I –”

 _Crack._ It seems like security has finally made progress.

She swallows. “–Even though I can't rise from death, I'll still find a way back… somehow. Reincarnation…? Another universe?”

“Anything… works, Vriska.” You stop trying to hold back your tears. “Find me! I'm sure if anyone can, you can.”

“Great.” She forces herself to snuggle in even closer. You hold her tight.

“John…….. It hurts……..”

A doctor stops in his tracks once he sees the two of you. Your tears spill over.

“S-Shh… It's going… to be okay, I promise.”

“Okay… It's okay… goodbye? More… like badbye.”

“No, goodbye,” you say firmly, breaking through your sobs with a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “We'll see each other again, somewhere, someday, and things will work out, I swear…”

“I love you,” she mumbles, and stops.

“I love you, too.” you kiss her, taking away her last breath and a crystalline, solitary tear.

 

You'll always deny seeing her spirit depart.

 

As she dies, she falls - 

The dice in her hand drop lifelessly onto the ground, proclaiming a gamble lost.

You place the dice back and close her hand tight –

It was a gamble won.

 

There's blood and grime on your hands as you leave, clutching her in your arms, and no one dares to stop you, no one.

 

You bury her ashes at sea because a pirate is free, and she has conquered the sky.

 

 

How do you live without her?

Years later, you find yourself in a casino, gambling enormous impossible sums and somehow miraculously winning them all.

After spending God knows how many hours running the tables, you walk up to the roof.

Under the brilliant Antares, you release yourself, and watch two spirits fly.


End file.
